


Stumblr Fics

by vodkaanddebauchery



Series: Misc Tumblr Requests [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Losers (2010), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bruce is Scully, Cultural Bisexuality, Drinking Games, Dungeons and Dragons, First Kiss, Jake Jensen loves Miss Congeniality more than life itself, M/M, Multi, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Secret Crush, Seven Minutes In Heaven, The Geek shall inherit the earth, The Hat - Freeform, Tony is Mulder, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Vacationing in Asgard, X Files Fusion, hipster!Steve, phil/clint if you squint, punk!bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodkaanddebauchery/pseuds/vodkaanddebauchery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various fills written for tumblr fic prompts (but primarily, a whole lotta Stucky). Thus far: </p><p>1. Steve/Bucky, "Accidentally hugged the wrong person from behind Steve/Bucky AU"<br/>2. Steve/Bucky, "Seven Minutes in Heaven"<br/>3. Cougar/Jensen, "Jensen giving Cougar his hat."<br/>4. Science Bros, "X-files Fusion." <br/>5. Gen - "Coulson teaching Tony, Steve, and Thor how to play a tabletop RPG"</p><p>More fandoms, pairings, tags, and warnings will be added as requests are filled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thug Life? More like Hug Life. Come here.

**Author's Note:**

> First fill: Jen requested "Accidentally hugged the wrong person from behind Steve/Bucky AU"
> 
> I had those really gorgeous punk!Bucky and tiny hipster!Steve fanarts that are floating around tumblr in mind while writing this uwu

Bucky has absolutely no excuses.

He’s had enough coffee today, he’s not drunk (it’s a Saturday morning and he’s in a museum, why would he be drunk? he’s a punk, he’s not stupid), he’s certainly not nearsighted (20/20, he’d boasted at the recruiting office) he’s completely out of reasonable excuses. All he has left is sheer stupidity. 

That, and as Gramma always said, shit happens. 

“Uh,” says the person who he’s currently spooning from behind, and holy shit, that is definitely not Ruthie’s voice. Bucky drops his hands and leaps back because that’s a very _male_ voice, and he doesn’t want to get caught by his sort-of partner hugging a total stranger from behind, because who the fuck does that? Creeps, that’s who. 

The guy turns around, his face set and jaw jutting forward like he’d want to throw a punch if, you know, throwing punches wouldn’t break him in half. There’s no other word for it, the dude is _little_ , which is half of why he thought it was Ruthie in the first place. 

They’ve got very similar hair in terms of color and style - Ruthie punched his shoulder and yelled _fuck the gender binary_ when he asked why her hair was so short when they first met - so that doesn’t really help either.

The little guy Bucky accidentally maybe felt up a little quirks a brow and asks mildly, “Do I know you?” 

“Uhh,” Bucky stammers, raising his hands. “Uh. Sorry, man. I thought you were my -” He fishes around for the right word, draws a blank, and waves a hand, really wishing he could melt into the marble floor of the Natural History wing right about now. “Uh, doesn’t matter what Ruthie is, but you’re not her, I’ll stop bothering you, I’m so sorry - no, I am _really sorry_.” 

For a second the little blonde guy just stares at him like he’s an alien. He probably looks like one - some scummy young tattooed guy in a patched up jacket apologizing like an elderly church parishioner who took the last cookie. 

Then the kid busts out laughing, and Bucky can count on one hand the number of times he’s blushed in his entire life, he practically came out of the womb unflappable, but there is definitely heat creeping up the back of his necks and ears.

It’s not because the guy is laughing at him, it’s because he’s _adorable_ , despite being dressed like a snooty art school hipster and wearing those thick-rimmed glasses that Bucky absolutely _despises_ , and Bucky maybe wants to gather him up and wrap him up in hand-knit blankets and spoonfeed the guy hot chocolate and he’s super, super fucked. 

Blushing is so not punk rock. 

But then something happens, the little guy is laughing so hard at him that his wheezes turn from mirth to an oxygen-starved wheeze-rattle, and Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s doing as he’s diving for the guy’s back and rummaging through it until he emerges with the inhaler that instinctual he knows will be there, which he shoves into the little guy’s hands. 

He sits next to the little guy on the bench until he’s able to breathe again and sticks around after that, because he hugged the guy from behind and then was ridiculous enough to send him into an asthma attack. Bucky feels kind of responsible.

“I wasn’t laughing at you to be an asshole,” the little guy says, when he’s able to stick more than two words together without going short of breath. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t hugging you to be an asshole. I’m sorry too,” Bucky says, feeling himself go red again. The guy chuckles again, and then coughs _hard_ , and without so much as a by-your-leave from his brain Bucky’s hand is up, patting the guy softly between his bony shoulder blades. 

It’s at that precise moment he sees Ruthie from across the hall and snatches his hand away, because yeah, he’s not a creep. 

When she catches sight of him next to the little guy, Ruthie’s pierced eyebrow climbs to her hairline, but a second later his phone buzzes with a text.

_Get his number, asshole, he’s really cute._

Bucky texts as fast as he can not to be rude. _I thought I was meeting you here for a date, not meeting Tiny Cute Mystery Asthmatic for a date._

Across the hall, Ruthie starts laughing. _I actually came here to break up with you sry you’re not fulfilling my needs_

Bucky must make a noise, because the little guy looks at him, concerned. “You okay?” 

Two seconds later his phone buzzes again. _like you’re really great but I want to dismantle capitalist patriarchal society through organized protests not stay at home and plant flowers and knit blankets for the homeless_

“Well, I just got dumped by text, for one.” He shows the guy the messages, and then almost smacks his forehead because here he is calling the guy cute in his messages to ex-Ruthie, but it’s too late, he can’t yank the phone away, because he’s actively trying not to be an asshole but he’s also trying not to be a creep.

That’s a fail on both fronts, then. 

“You actually knit blankets for the homeless?” The little blonde guy looks a little bemused. 

“Crochet,” Bucky mumbles miserably. 

The guy hands Bucky his phone back. There are bright spots of color on his cheeks. “I’d feel bad but then I wouldn't be able to ask if I could buy you a coffee, so.”

Bucky stares at him.

 

~**~

 

Three weeks later, Bucky’s standing in line waiting for his stupid pretentious overpriced Brooklyn hipster shit coffee, feeling irate because the coffee shop is playing the same damn stupid song that it was yesterday, when he feels two thin arms wrap around him. 

“Morning, Stevie,” he says, without turning around. The line moves and he steps forward, bringing Steve with him. 

“Get down here, punk,” Steve says, tugging a little at his sleeve.

Bucky complies, and makes sure to ease Steve’s insufferable glasses off of his face before he leans down and kisses him good morning. 

It’s shaping up to be a great day.


	2. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Avengers.  
> 2\. Asgardian Ale.  
> 3\. A convenient closet.  
> 4\. ??????  
> 5\. Profit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vulpineRaconteur requested "Seven Minutes in Heaven" Steve and Bucky because it sounded cute.

_-25_

In all honesty Steve is still struggling to wrap his head around the whole inter-dimensional Norse gods thing sometimes, but he's learned two very important things about Asgardian culture since arriving via face-melting rainbow bridge earlier that morning (afternoon? Day? He's going to have to ask Doctor Foster how time works between earth and Asgard when they get back).

One: Asgardians are culturally bisexual, which puts them far ahead of Earth culture in his book. He might be a little biased there.  
Two: he's faced off against Nazis, super serum-enhanced Nazis, and an army of space aliens, but in Asgardian ale he's finally met his match. Erskine's serum didn't stand a chance, not a single one.

-20

"GAMES GAMES GAMES GAMES." 

Tony and Clint are hollering and beating their fists on the floor because they all seem to have lost the wherewithal to keep track of the meandering conversation they started having when they started drinking. They drop that and immediately a team-wide bickering match over drinking games strikes up. 

There aren't any ping pong balls to be found on Asgard, so with a groan Clint and Natasha resign themselves to an even drinking game playing field. "Like," Tony says, not even swaying a little but his speech is slurred, "like it's not even _fair_ to us mere mortals, playing beer pong - ale pong? - with an expert marksman and two internationally renowned assassins, give us a _break_."

"If you're stupid enough to play with us, you get what you deserve," Clint shoots back, and both Bucky and Natasha snort. Steve meets Bruce's eyes from across the circle, and Bruce just starts laughing, shoulders loose. 

"Okay," Steve begins, and has to pause and collect his thoughts - he is the leader, so help him, he will guide his team through this trans-planetary Avengers drinking and bonding exercise. "Okay. No beer pong. No darts. No....throwing things. What else is there?"

"I wish we had thought to bring Cards Against Humanity," Clint says mournfully, and protests when Natasha jabs him with her elbow. "Hey, just because I always get the Bees? card and you don't -"

Tony thumps his hand on the floor to get their attention. "Children, can we please return our attention to - ooh, truth or dare, I think this is the perfect opportunity to get the dirty on you all -"

"I think I speak for all of us when I say there are things about me that I never want a Stark to know," Bucky comments, and so Steve shakes his head. Tony pouts. 

"Seven minutes in heaven?" Natasha suggests, knocking back the rest of her drink and arching an eyebrow. 

Clint crows in laughter. Steve feels lost. Whatever it is, it sounds dirty.

_-17_

Okay, maybe he was lost because this game is a little after his time. 

Tony explains the rules for the benefit of the senior citizens ("fuck you, Tony," Bucky shot back), and Steve was right, it sounds _really dirty_. After establishing some base rules (consent is to be procured beforehand for any physical contact, nothing below the belt, no time extensions are to be given for the sake of keeping every drunk Avenger on track for as long as possible), they're ready to go. 

Steve blinks and finds his tankard filled to the brim again. On his left Bucky leans against his arm, smiling slightly and looking more relaxed and unwound than Steve's seen him in a long time, and even though his head is buzzing when Bucky catches his eye and grins, it's like a moment of clarity.

Thor procures a bottle from nowhere - Steve suspects it might be a priceless Asgardian vase with untold cultural value - and plunks it in the middle of their circle. 

"Who's gone the longest without doing the do?" Tony asks, and Steve feels every eye travel slowly over to him. For a second he's irritated, he vetoed truth or dare, but then he realizes oh yeah. 

"Fine, whatever," he grumbles, reaching out and spinning the bottle like Bruce described. As it spins everyone waits with bated breath, until it slowly comes to a halt pointing at Tony. 

"The drinking games love me," he smirks, sipping his drink. "Who's with me?"

Going clockwise, the next person to spin is Bucky, who does it with rather more force than necessary. Steve starts to sweat as it slows on its way to him, but stops on Clint at his right. 

Silence falls over the group, then Tony and Clint immediately start sniping. 

"RESPIN, I DEMAND A RESPIN -"  
"I can't spend seven minutes in the dark with Richie Rich here, are you fuckin kidding me?!"

"Get into the closet, you babies." Natasha rolls to her feet, still graceful despite her prolific drinking, and drags them both by the elbow into the Asgardian equivalent of a coat closet. 

The rest of them remain very quiet for seven whole minutes, breaking the silence only to stifle their laughter at Tony and Clint grousing heatedly at each other for the entire time.

"I'm starting to think it would've been kinder if we'd have let Tony go against Barton at beer pong," Bucky stage whispers to Steve. 

_-10_

"This was a stupid idea," Tony grumbles. 

"On the contrary," Thor says - he's by far the most sober out of them, but that might have something to do with his tolerance for Asgardian liquor. "I find this to be a most amusing jape, engineered to strengthen bonds between friends and comrades!"

"Just wait until you're stuck in a closet with Giggles over there," Tony grumbles, jabbing a thumb at Clint. He breathes an audible sigh of relief when to Bucky's left, Natasha spins the bottle, and it passes over Tony to land on Thor. Bruce spins after, and it lands on Natasha. 

The Asgardian and if the assassin size each other up for a good fifteen seconds or so before Thor gets to his feet and offers his arm. "Fair Widow?"

Nothing interesting happens during those seven minutes.

When the closet door is pulled upon on them, Natasha jumps awake and acts like she hadn't dozed off with her head resting on Thor's broad shoulder. Bucky elbows Steve and makes a gesture, the old 'this is a total bust' gesture Steve remembers from long ago. 

_-2_

 

When they're all settled in their circle again, Tony spins. Steve feels an impending sense of doom wash over him when the bottleneck points at him like it's finding cardinal north on a compass. 

"Alright, but whoever I'm with better not make Captain America coming out of the closet jokes when our seven minutes are up," he says, sitting back and trying to feel resigned about his fate. Mostly, he feels really drunk. 

Thor spins with rather more force than necessary, the bottle blurring as it spins. Involuntarily, Steve finds himself holding his breath as it slows and...and...

"Come on, punk, let's lose these assholes." Bucky looks at the bottle pointing to him, gets to his feet a little unsteadily, and tugs on Steve's hand until he's standing, practically dragging him off to the closet. 

_-1_

"Your virtue is safe with me." Bucky's sly grin is the last thing he sees in the light before they pull the door shut. "And also any jokes we coulda made about coming out of the closet, we told before the rest of those jerks were even born, so." 

In the dark he manages to find Buck's right arm and punch it. Bucky makes a little wounded noise, Steve laughs at him, and for a second it's like they're back in time and back on Earth, horsing around. 

_+1_

"Yeah I'm not standing for this entire time, are you kidding me?" Next to him, Bucky slides to his feet, and Steve follows. 

For a good thirty seconds they're silent in the dark, shoulder to shoulder. 

Steve feels like his heart is beating abnormally loudly. He wonders if Bucky can hear it. 

"So, uh, how are you liking Asgard?" he asks, casting around for something to say, because telling your best friend _I'm completely keelhauled over you and have been since I was fifteen_ while you're both drunk in a closet on another planet is just wholly inappropriate.

_+2_

He feels the movements of Bucky's shrug. "I like it just fine. Everyone's really friendly."

"They're culturally bisexual, you know," Steve says weakly, desperately trying to fill the air with something that isn't how badly he _wants._

"That so?" Steve knows all of Bucky's voices, and this isn't his I'm Playing Along voice, or the one where Steve can hear the sly upturn of his mouth. This is different. Tense, or soft, or both.

"Mhmm," Steve says. 

"That's real interesting and all, but you could throw a whole planet full of burly bisexuals who make great liquor at me and I'd wanna go home if I wasn't there with you." 

_+2.30_

" _Steve_ ," Bucky says softly. 

Steve swallows loudly. He wants to say something like, "Yeah, Buck?" but the still-sober part of his brain is screaming at him to keep his mouth shut and not fuck this up. Bucky's said so much in a single breath of his name, and he can't ruin this with words, not with his clumsy drunk brain and his awkward questions.

Slowly beside him, Bucky moves, clothing making soft rustling noises. They find each other in the dark. 

Bucky's nose brushes against Steve's, and there's more than enough time for him to pull away, to ask if there needs to be consent for any of this, except he doesn't want to. 

_+3_

It is dark and Bucky's lips are dry and soft. 

When they find Steve's they only press tentatively, at first. Then, almost as if he's curious, he moves his lips against Steve's, and Steve can't help the broken noise that escapes.

After that Bucky's kissing him for real. 

_+4_

Steve is dizzy and he can't tell if it's from the ale or the close quarters or just how Bucky's hand came up, long fingers cupping the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

They both taste like ale and it's both perfect and a little disgusting, and Steve would start laughing but the second he opens his mouth Bucky deepens the kiss. Steve's just fine with being a little more thoroughly occupied.

_+5_

They have to come up for air. 

"Jesus," Bucky breathes against his mouth, stroking his fingers down Steve's neck, "Jesus, we could have been doing this for years, why haven't we -"

"Shut up and kiss me again," Steve says, feeling a little wild, but still very drunk, and he has to pull back and say - he has to be sure -

"I'm not kissing you because we've been drinking, before you have a meltdown," Bucky says. Even inebriated he has that uncanny way of knowing what insecurity Steve's gnawing on at any given time. "I'm kissing you because I wanna, I've wanted to for years, what are you doing get back here."

Steve reaches out for him. His fingers find the fabric of Bucky's shirt. He tugs it and then gets a great idea, finding the hem and then sliding his fingertips beneath it. "Well, when you put it like that...."

_+6_

Kissing Bucky isn't anything like he dreamed of, when he allowed himself to ignore the guilt that came with dreaming of kissing his best friend. 

It's better.

He chases Bucky's tongue, sweeping it across his lower lip, only teasing and drawing back when Bucky's lips part. He pulls away and plants moist little kisses at the corners of Bucky's mouth, the perfect bow of his upper lip, his chin, before he takes Bucky's lower lip between his teeth and nibbles, tugging on it.

He can't tell which one of them makes the noise like they've been wounded, but he's positive it's something he'll never get sick of hearing, not for the rest of his life. 

_+7_

Someone knocks on the closet door. 

Bucky unhinges from Steve's face with a soft, wet noise and a final lick and yells. "Whoever you are, you can fuck right off." 

"No time extensions, Barnes, we made a rule!" comes Tony's voice, muffled by the thick door. "I don't care if you're feeling each other up, other people want to play -"

There's no warning when he opens the closet door, but he stands there for a good twenty seconds, staring at them. Steve feels his face heat up, feeling utterly exposed and aware that they both look like they've been making out for the last five minutes. 

That, and Bucky's hand is resting on his thigh, creeping exponentially up. 

"We resign," Steve blurts. "We resign, we're out, have fun without us." 

Bucky smiles at him like he's a drunken genius. 

_+20_

Alcohol has robbed them of any coordination necessary to do more than stumble into Steve's guest chambers, closing and locking the heavy door behind them and peeling clothing. 

They tumble into bed and kiss until they fall asleep. 

_+12 hours_

Sleeping off an Asgardian-sized hangover isn't the most fun he's ever had on vacation, but given the circumstances, how Bucky looks and feels in the gigantic bed next to him, he doesn't think they have anything to complain about now.

"Culturally bisexual, huh?" Bucky sounds like hell, but he's grinning at Steve like Steve's the eighth wonder of the world, if not the universe. 

"I told you that last night." Ignoring his headache, Steve reaches out and slugs him, very lightly, on his right shoulder. 

"Yeah, well, forgive me, I was preoccupied." 

"With?" Steve asks mildly.

"Using a high school drinking game as an excuse to finally kiss you," Bucky says, and even though the way he's blushing a little makes Steve want to never let him out of bed, not for the rest of their natural lives, he waits until they've both at least cleaned their mouths and gulped down some water to kiss him without a time limit.


	3. The Cat in the Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hides in the back, in between shelves of cheap San Antonio shotglasses and novelty taxidermied frogs until he’s convinced himself exactly why kissing Cougar is a terrible, terrible, world-ending idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynnie requested Losers fic: "Jensen giving Cougar his hat." There is probably going to be a sequel. I enjoy writing these morons.

Jensen's been a member of the Losers long enough now that they've stopped calling him New Guy (or Fresh Meat, because Roque is nothing but a charmer) and started calling him by name, and here is what he knows about his teammates:  
Clay's by far the best of the CO's he's ever had since leaving Basic, stubborn as a bulldog with a bone but also surprisingly earnest, and inspires loyalty and trust for all he's brusque and has a deathwish when it comes to women. Roque is very clearly on the second rung of the chain of command, still a charmer, but Jensen gets along with him just fine as long as he doesn't toe the line or try to cheat him at cards (he hasn't managed yet, but he's trying).  
Pooch is his second favorite, and truth be told the one he built rapport with quickest, bonding over a mutual love of godawful schlock rock karaoke, and when they're not screaming at each other over who drank the last Red Bull, he kinda thinks of the guy as an older brother.  
His favorite, though, is Carlos-Never-Call-Him-Carlos Cougar, who's said maybe three words to him since he first met them till now, six months, ten missions, and thirty-six border crossings later. 

Amazingly, Coug's not his favorite just because he's bringing sexy back, bammin' slammin' bootylicious, Jensen's teenage dream tonight or whatever. The man speaks an undiscovered language with his facial expressions and eyebrows that it seems like only Jensen can translate, and every time he gets to catalog a new expression it's like he's some sort of intrepid explorer discovering long-lost ruins no man has seen in millennia, ruins which can say 'Shut up and get out of the way Jensen I'd like to brush my teeth' with a single tick of the mouth.  
That, and the first time Jensen saw him in action, putting a bullet clean through some thug's head, nearly a quarter of a mile away from the back of a moving vehicle, he did maybe fall in love a little bit.

Jensen doesn't have an old-fashioned thermometer handy, but it's summer in San Antonio and he's pretty sure the mercury would be busting through the glass. 

It's hot. It's hot as balls. 

It's also eighteen hours until their leave is technically over, twenty-four until they're supposed to be on another plane to BFE shooting God-knows-who, and by God Jensen is going to make the most of this ball-scorching day if it kills him. 

Which is why they're in the historic River district, paying an exorbitant amount for ice creams. Cougar gives him a look, maybe a little on the cranky side of the amusement he usually treats Jensen with, and takes his ice cream before it can drip down the cone and onto Jensen's wrist. 

"Yeah, I know, it's hot, but would you rather be watching reruns of Family Feud in your boxers and working through the minibar until we leave?" 

Cougar raises an eyebrow that clearly says yes, yes that would be vastly preferable to walking around tourist traps, remembering the Alamo in the heat. 

"I came here once before and it was a bitter, grievous disappointment," Jensen says, as they pass the swarms of tourists flocking around the Alamo, remembering keenly just how much of a let-down it was. "To be fair, I was in middle school and super into the paranormal and when I realized five minutes in that I wasn't going to see any ghosts I stopped paying attention." 

Cougar shoots him his _no shit_ look and finishes his ice cream, crunching the cone. 

"What about you, Cougs? Feel like spending too much to walk around a hallowed bastion of American colonialism? It might be air conditioned. We can crash the historical reenactments, it'll be fun." 

The sniper - sorry, long-distance elimination specialist - huffs a little laugh, and Jensen counts it as a victory, because the dude’s still only said like three words to him, but he's managed to startle laughter out of him on a few occasions and he'll take what he can fucking get.

They don't actually remember the Alamo.

Cougar seems a little less cantankerous when they get to the Riverwalk and they can duck into air-conditioned shops, out of the baking afternoon sun. It's early enough in the day that walking around with a beer is still a no-no, but it's late enough in his leave that Jensen doesn't give a shit, so he springs to get the both of them Negra Modelos. 

" _Gracias_ ," Cougar murmurs, and Jensen absolutely does not crow at getting his Cougar Word Count up to four, so he just clinks his bottle against Cougar's and says, " _De nada_." 

They set off for the river, which is still packed with people, sunburned tourists and whiny kids. At his side Cougar scans constantly; when they walk, Cougar's at his six like he usually is in the field. 

Special Ops are usually filled with paranoid bastards for good reason and Jensen's no exception, but he really doesn't mind having Cougar at his back. 

They wait too fucking long for a boat ride. Cougar leans against the railing and smiles slow and lazy at pretty girls when they walk past, and they always smile back. Jensen, on the other hand, gets a gnarly sunburn. The line is positioned so that he's squinting into the sun. He’s thirsty from the beer and the sugary ice cream, and wrung out from the heat. 

He forgets all of that promptly when they’re seated on the boat, Cougar squished next to his side so a family from Georgia can fill up the rest of the bench. The air next to the water is fractionally cooler, and when the boat moves down the canal there’s enough airflow to make it comfortable, not ball-scorching. 

“Oh my god,” he says, when the boat rounds a corner. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god.”

Cougar raises both eyebrows. 

“I always forget they filmed _Miss Congeniality_ here, Jesus, I am _so happy,_ ” Jensen replies, and spends the rest of the boat ride quoting the movie under his breath. He can’t tell if Cougar’s looking at him fondly, or just wanting to reach over and smack his sunburn. 

By the time they disembark, Jensen still humming the _Miss United States_ song, the day’s stretching into evening, multicolored lights around the river flickering to life, the sound of chatter and laughter and clinking glasses filling the air as restaurants fill up. 

Jensen’s stomach is growling - he’s only had sugar and beer today, cut him some slack - and every single restaurant they pass both smells delicious, and has a line out the door. “Whatcha think, Cougs? Mexican? Tex-Mex? Tex-Mex-Brazilian fusion? Mexican-Chinese fusion? Or do you want to go against the grain and get your Irish on? I promise I won’t tell anyone if we switch to Guinness for the rest of the night, it’ll be our secret.” 

Cougar looks at him like he’s stupid and plants himself at the back of a line for a restaurant that boasts of its authentic food, live music seven nights a week, and bucket-sized margaritas. The man has excellent taste, Jensen thinks. It doesn’t help the pants-busting crush, nor does the way Cougar holds up the wall as he waits, long and lean, a warm evening breeze stirring his hair where it’s escaping from his ponytail. He’s gorgeous and Jensen doesn’t feel so much like an intrepid explorer any more, more like a bungee jumper whose cord has just snapped.

For Chrissakes, Jensen needs to remove himself from this situation before he does something monumentally stupid, like lay one on his very Catholic, very likely straight, very likely heteronormative teammate. 

“I uhh.” Jensen clears his throat. “I gotta go get something for my sunburn, it’s hurtin’ real bad.” Then, feeling really smooth, he dashes off to the Five And Dime, where practically nothing’s five dollars and everything costs considerably more than a dime. 

He hides in the back, in between shelves of cheap San Antonio shotglasses and novelty taxidermied frogs until he’s convinced himself exactly why kissing Cougar is a terrible, terrible, world-ending idea. They’re teammates. They’re both dude teammates (Inner 16 year old Jensen who got to second with the linebacker from his high school football team demands, _So?!_ ). They’re still pretty new teammates. They’re all mildly paranoid weirdos. Cougar is very proficient with very accurate guns. Jensen hasn’t yet been shot and isn’t eager to find out what it’s like. The list goes on. 

He breathes through his nose. He paces between the aisles, picks up some aloe for his lobsterfied neck and shoulders, shotglasses for the rest of the guys, a dumb chihuahua bobblehead that he thinks will annoy Pooch, and a clear plastic scorpion paperweight because why not? before he passes by a rack of hats on his way up to the cashier. 

They’re all mostly dumb, but there’s one on the end - it’s not dumb, but _he’s_ dumb, picking it up and testing the feel of it, how buttery the leather is, how sturdy the strap is, how tight the brim is. 

He’s super dumb and he’s buying it because if he can’t kiss Cougar without getting his balls shot off, he can at least buy him a hat. That’s super neutral and friendly and just the sort of team-strengthening camaraderie the ROTC guy mooned about ages ago, right? 

Right?

Cougar’s gone, seated by the time Jensen gets back to the crowded restaurant and he has a hell of a time convincing the girl at the front to let him in. He tips two fingers up to him in greeting, and flirts shamelessly without saying a single word when a waitress comes to take Jensen’s drinks order.

“Whatever he’s having, and as much water as you can legally give me without draining the canals,” Jensen babbles. He drums his fingers on the table when she leaves, thirsty and maybe a little antsy. Across the table, Cougar looks relaxed and lickable, already halfway into his first bucket-sized margarita, and Jensen can’t help but notice that his teammate is drawing the eye of every single woman under sixty in the immediate vicinity and a good portion of the young men, too.

“I bought you a thing,” he blurts, fishing the paper Five and Dime bag out from underneath the table. He shoves the hat at Cougar. 

Those dark eyes widen fractionally, and there’s a little twist to his mouth that Jensen’s not yet cataloged- not protest, nothing aggro, he hopes, but also not the sort of question Jensen’s ever seen him ask before. 

“Figure, guy like you? You need a hat like this,” Jensen says, before rambling, “you don’t have to take it if you don’t like it, like, I can return it no big deal if you don’t want it, or we can foist it off on Pooch, or Roque, except I think Roque would rather skin me than wear this -”

He stops with a really super dignified squeak when Cougar leans forward, fast like his namesake, so quick Jensen barely registers the movement, and rests his hand on top of Jensen’s drumming fingers. 

Then, with exaggerated slowness, Cougar pulls the hat on and - damn, it looks fucking perfect on him, like Jensen somehow knew it would. He tugs the brim down, and quirks his lips at Jensen in a way that make his legs turn to jelly.

“Jensen,” he says, very slow and quiet, but the clamor of the restaurant around them is lost behind his voice, “I like the hat. I’ll keep the hat. Roque doesn’t get it.” 

Jensen’s bucket-sized margarita and waters arrive and he starts drinking, just to occupy his mouth so he doesn’t start yelling because he’s quadrupled his Cougar Word Count and Cougar’s keeping the hat, and he’s sunburned as shit and it’s still hot as balls and he’s drinking a $20 margarita, but Jake Jensen still feels like he’s on top of the world. 

The next afternoon, Cougar wears the hat onto the plane. If his smile is a little soft, his eyes a little warm when they find Jensen’s after Clay sizes him up and says, “Nice hat,” well. Maybe kissing Cougar isn’t totally off the table yet.

Jensen’s pretty sure he’s had worse ideas, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bought a hat at the Five and Dime on the Riverwalk when I was fifteen but unfortunately did not have a gorgeous man to give it to.


	4. Nothing Important Happened Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce scoffed, trying to head off Tony's inevitable conclusion that had been threatening to bubble over for the past ten minutes. "You're not honestly suggesting -"
> 
> "I'm not saying it was aliens, Doc," Tony grinned manically, "but it was aliens."
> 
> (Science Bros X-Files fusion!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request from startswithsparks/moderntrickster on tumblr: "Science Husbands as Mulder and Scully."
> 
> Unbeta'd, so I apologize for any errors in spelling or tense changes. Also, I didn't intend for this to suddenly get angsty. Sorry. ):

The New Mexican desert was bright and sunny but when Bruce got out of the rented sedan he had to dive back in for his cost and scarf. Stark was already there, standing next to a flashy sports car on a scenic vista overlooking the site of impact. With an exasperated sigh, Bruce approached his partner and the gross waste of their budget on this investigation. 

Tony was muttering something into his phone, a low and steady enthusiastic stream of indecipherable techno-babble that stopped only when Bruce was practically on top of him. He grinned up at the doctor. 

"And I am presently joined by the good doctor, speak of the devil," he said. There was an edge to his voice that meant, when he took his sunglasses off, his eyes would be red and wild from lack of sleep, too much cheap coffee, and the sort of mania that only struck him when he thought he was onto something great. 

"What were you saying about me that makes me the devil?" Bruce asked mildly, used to his partner's antics enough by now to be greatly unenthused by them.

"Well, devil, figure of speech, I don't think you're actually the devil - except for that one time when you unplugged my monitors but that's all water under the bridge -"

"You'd gone forty hours without sleep and were starting to hallucinate," Bruce interjected.

"Water under the bridge," Tony waved him off, still talking to the JARVIS mobile program he'd written for his phone. " _Anyway_ as I was saying, if one looks down to the landing site -"

"Crater."

"Landing site," Tony plowed on, "You will see that, even with the dust settling and shifting and the layer of snow, there is an obvious, decipherable pattern emanating from the point of contact - "

"Impact."

" _Contact,_ " Tony said, "anyway, I dare you to look at that pattern and say there isn't an intelligent design behind it."

Bruce scrutinized the crater, already half-obscured by the crust of snow that had fallen the previous night. He wasn't willing to grant Tony the point that there was an intelligent design behind it, but he had to admit...there was a distinct pattern to it, interwoven lines that reminded him of Celtic knots, only about a billion times more complex.

Still, Bruce was a man of science. Well, they were both men of science, but he liked to think he was a little less flappable than Tony, whose brain spiraled off on tangents even more complex than the lines on the desert ground. 

"Pranksters," Bruce said dryly. "A meteorite crashes, some local comes out with some of his buddies, thinking with a night's work they can get their little town on the map as the new Roswell. We saw this outside of Sedona, remember?"

Tony made an impatient noise. "I drove three hundred miles in five hours to get here as soon as I heard about the landing."

"Impact."

"Landing," Tony corrected. "I've been up here for four hours. I haven't seen anyone tampering with the site."

Bruce exhaled. He took his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose, fighting off the headache that came with long distance driving and dealing with Tony's antics.

The other scientist was bouncing in place, practically vibrating with excitement. "Also, you'll be pleased to know I had JARVIS here run pictures of the visible parts of the pattern through every available database, looking for a match."

"Did you try the Book of Kells? Pretty sure I saw it in the Book of Kells when I was an undergrad."

"There was no match, Bruce!" Tony's voice raised higher and higher. "None! No match for this precise pattern to be found on Earth! And yet, here we are, looking at a pattern that's a) obviously designed by intelligent beings and b) obviously designed by intelligent beings who, while they are familiar with aspects of human culture, do not adhere to it precisely."

Bruce scoffed, trying to head off Tony's inevitable conclusion that had been threatening to bubble over for the past ten minutes. "You're not honestly suggesting -"

"I'm not saying it was aliens, Doc," Tony grinned manically, "but it was aliens."

 

~**~

 

They got adjoining rooms in the finest motor hotel establishment that Puente Antiguo had to offer, meaning the walls were paper thin and Bruce was certain he'd be privy to every single eureka-moment exclamation Tony would make at four in the morning as he perused his message boards and conspiracy contacts. Thinking about it, he was pretty sure he'd still take that over hearing Tony's porn, which he had one time and one time only on their first assignment together.

Bruce had, to use the internet vernacular, ragesploded. Henceforth Tony knew better than to queue up Dirty Doctors 6 on his laptop without headphones. 

Puente Antiguo itself was small and close-knit. After a brief shower and Red Bull refuel, Tony suggested they start with the locals, "Because a town this small? People are bound to notice anything out of the ordinary."

This stage of an investigation was Bruce's favorite: They'd go their separate ways, Tony to question hapless locals and Bruce to the local hospital to get slightly more informed medical opinions on anything strange. They would reconvene for some greasy diner food, and more often than not, Tony's pet alien theories would have deflated some after his interviews with the locals turned up nothing substantial. 

That was how things were supposed to go. 

Bruce felt his headache start to gnaw at the backs of his eyeballs again when the helpful young woman at the local hospital's front desk leaned over and said conspiratorially, "Anything strange? Oh, Doctor -

"Banner."

"Doctor Banner, just let me tell you. I've had a crazy shift and, call me Quasimodo, but I gotta hunch things are gonna get crazier. A _lot_ crazier."

Wincing, Bruce drummed his fingers a little on the counter, feeling his mood sour. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. "How crazy is crazy?" He asked. The nursing assistant glanced back and forth, probably checking for superiors, before she leaned closer. 

"This is about that weird ass crater, right?" Bruce's expression must have betrayed his surprise, because her eyes widened and she muttered, "I _knew_ it."

"Just tell me why your shift has been crazy, and any theories you may have as to why it'll get even crazier, please." His headache was increasing steadily, and for a second Bruce debated rummaging in his jacket pocket for his prescription migraine pills, but decided against it. 

"So Jane Foster - she's a scientist visiting, not a local girl," the nurse's face darkened, as if she reviled the very thought of a local being involved in this, "Jane Foster comes in and she's got this guy with her, John Doe, no one knows him, and even though we got his prints on admittance they don't match any in the national database." 

At that moment another nurse passed by and commented, "Oh, are you talking about Thor?" 

"Thor?" Bruce repeated mildly. The nurse nodded. 

"Tall Blonde and Hunky? That's what he said his name was. Just about the only thing he said that made sense, but ooh girl." She met her coworker's eyes slyly. "He was more than easy on the eyes." 

"So a handsome John Doe with delusions of being a Norse god," Bruce repeated.

"Yeah," Nurse Number One said, nodding enthusiastically. "He walked out about half an hour ago."

Bruce said, "Sounds like your garden-variety drunk, to me," at the same time Nurse Number Two said in alarm, "Wait, he left?!"

Bruce decided on taking his migraine pills just as she started dialing hospital security. He was paid nowhere near enough to deal with this shit. 

 

~**~

 

"So whatcha got?" Tony said, downing his diner coffee and tapping the mug on the table until the harried-looking waitress came back and, with a sigh, just left him the full coffee pot.  
"A very handsome blonde transient who thinks he's a god escaped from the hospital," Bruce said mildly, cutting into his pancakes. "You?" 

Tony gleefully drummed his hands on the tabletop. "I've struck gold, Brucie, pure gold."

"Don't call me that." 

Tony yammered on, heedless of Bruce's interruption. "Locals are talking, there was a big storm last night, that was when the object -"

"Meteorite."

"- object crashed." Tony dropped his voice, eyes alight with excitement and sleep deprivation. "Since then the place has been swarming with black suits. Locals have been trying to pick up the artifact -"

"Meteorite."

"- but the suits shut everything down, claimed radioactivity." 

"Black suits," Bruce mused. "Not ours?"

"If they are, maybe we could collaborate," Tony said absently, eyes glazing over with shiny mental images of all his vast stores of knowledge and useless UFO tech research suddenly being in demand. "God, that'd be so great, we should go ask if we can exchange notes and help with their testing." 

Bruce smelled a whole lot of trans-departmental red tape he was going to have to untangle when Tony inevitably offended someone or broke something. 

He polished off his pancakes and took another migraine pill, and left an extravagant tip because the poor owner had been glaring at Tony holding one of her coffeepots hostage. 

If they'd stuck around five minutes longer they wouldn't have missed Tall Blonde and Hunky at another table smash a mug. 

 

~**~

 

"But," Tony whined, straining against Bruce's chokehold on him, "the _tech_ , Brucie, the _tech_!"

Tony had a few inches and about ten pounds of muscle on Bruce, but there was a - 

Bruce tried to slow down. Steady his breathing. Remember anger management. Remain calm. 

\- Nope, that wasn't fucking working, because there was a _metal humanoid robot with destructive laser beams_ casually walking down Main Street, destroying everything in its path. 

Its target was Tall Blonde and Hunky, who was, for all intents and purposes, a Norse God. He held the hammer that created the crater with its impact. They both watched as he called down lightning and, in a flash, was outfitted in mail and a flowing red cape. 

Bruce couldn't believe the week he was having. He was going to take a monthlong vacation after this, if Tony's massive boner for alien technology didn't get them both killed first. 

"Tony," he said, trying to shake some sense into his partner, "Tony, that thing is headed straight for us, we need to go."

Tony struggled against his hold. "You don't understand, this is the highlight of my life, this is everything I've ever wanted, I just want to see if I can get up and touch it a little -"

"Tony!" Bruce forgot his calm and started yelling a little bit. He wasn't proud of it, felt several months of mandatory anger management slip away. "Tony, it doesn't want to talk to you about propulsion boosters and anal probing! That thing will _literally kill you_ if you get anywhere near it!" 

Tony stopped struggling, and, for a second, Bruce thought he was finally seeing sense. He loosened his hold on his idiot alien-crazy partner and prepared to drag him away to safety, when Tony ducked, slipped out from his hold, and ran toward the giant silver Destroyer, yelling, "FOR SCIENCE! AND ALSO MY OWN HISTORY CHANNEL SPECIAL! LEEROOOOYYY JENKINS!" 

 

~**~

 

It happens like a series of slow-motion snapshots. 

Tony, running for the damn thing, looking like a man about to touch his dream. 

The Destroyer, advancing slowly up the street.

A percussive blast of energy, the heat of which Bruce can feel all the way down the street. 

The force ricocheting off a building. 

Explosions. 

Tony collapsing.

Blood streaming down his face

The Destroyer, advancing.....

 

~**~

 

"You threw a car." 

"Tony, you're not supposed to be talking." 

"Bruce, you _threw a car_." 

Bruce sighed, snapping off his rubber gloves. Tony was half-reclining on his patchy motel bedspread, bruised and bloody, but alive, thankfully. 

Alive.

He threw the gloves away in the bathroom trash can. He'd done all he could to clean up the blood from Tony's shallow (thank God) head laceration, and checked then double-checked to make sure he wasn't concussed from the impact. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to cure his partner's stupidity. The desire to get his hands on alien tech seemed to be incurable, as well.

"It was amazing," Tony said. "Well, the part that I was conscious for. It was like watching a superhero movie. You _threw a car at an alien robot._ " 

Bruce frowned. "I thought I'd lost you."

That made Tony go very, very quiet. 

"Oh," he said, blinking up at the doctor like he'd never really seen him, never looked before. "Oh. I love you too, Brucie."

Bruce let himself get pulled down to the gross bedspread and, mindful of the laceration across Tony's scalp, pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Don't call me that." 

 

~**~

 

Three days later, they got a call from an Agent Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. at six in the morning. 

They're offered better labs and a competitive salary. 

Bruce agreed, but only on the condition he got three weeks of do-not-disturb-barring-world-ending-emergency vacation first. 

Bali, he thought. Tony always spoke very highly of Bali.


	5. Raah Raah Like a Dungeon Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can I play an elf?” Tony leaned back in his chair, pushing the D6 around with his index finger as Thor began to roll. To his left, Steve was devouring the battered Player’s Guide that Phil had left on the table. “An elf with huge tits,” he added, just to see Steve’s brow furrow behind the book.
> 
> “How big is huge? I’d have to penalize all your dexterity-based throws if they’re too huge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pathlosergm (coincidentally, the GM for my current RPG campaign) on tumblr requested: "A fic about Phil Coulson attempting to explain how tabletop role playing games work to Thor, Steve and Tony."  
> Phil/Clint if you squint. 
> 
> Squishy kisses and special thanks to my internet husband startwithsparks for giving me some pretty great dialogue and bouncing alignment ideas back and forth.

“Okay, it’s not actually that hard.” Phil stuck his pencil behind his ear, pointing out each little box on the character sheet. “This are your base stats - strength, dexterity, constitution, intelligence, wisdom, and charisma. There are gonna be modifiers, but that comes in later, for now you just need to roll the D20 - yeah, that’s the one - and write down every number you get. I’ll help you with the rest when you’ve got that done.” 

“Can I play an elf?” Tony leaned back in his chair, pushing the D6 around with his index finger as Thor began to roll. To his left, Steve was devouring the battered Player’s Guide that Phil had left on the table. “An elf with huge tits,” he added, just to see Steve’s brow furrow behind the book.

“How big is huge? I’d have to penalize all your dexterity-based throws if they’re too huge.”

Tony shrugged. “I dunno, E-cups.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Just an elf with huge boobs, that’s what I want, Tony has spoken, it is decided.”

“I should like to play as a Paladin,” Thor announced, writing down his last D20 result and shoving the notepad at Phil. “With a mighty steed!”

“Awesome, we can get you a mount, but now we’ve got a tank,” Phil said, before he could stop himself. “Err - a tank, someone who can take damage for the rest of the party -”

“Like me and Thor in real life, you mean,” Steve said, putting the player’s guide down. His brow was creased in thought. “I dunno, I’m still thinking about mine.” 

“Take your time, we don’t have to start until later,” Phil said. He was getting better about it, but he still felt a little giddy around Captai - Rogers - _Steve_ , even though they’d all gotten past a certain point of professionalism. 

Which really explained a lot about why they were all gathered around the kitchen table in Avengers Tower on a Friday afternoon, rolling out tabletop RPG characters. Sometimes Phil had to pinch himself and make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He was in Geek Heaven, no, he’d ascended to Geek Nirvana.

“Thor, what alignment?” Turning to the correct page, Phil pushed the book back across the table and pointed out the alignment grid. “And what class, Tony?” 

“I dunno, something sexy,” Tony said. “That’s the point of this, right? That was the point of this when I was 14, my dwarf barbarian lost her clothes all the time, the DM liked getting us lost in dungeons with acid bogs.”

“I don’t run those sorts of campaigns,” Phil said, a little tentatively. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Thor?” 

Thor considered for a moment. “What good would a knightly paladin be if he did not uphold the law of his faith and the land? He shall be a Lawful Good Midgardian!”

“LG Human,” Phil made a note of that on Thor’s character sheet. “And any ideas, Steve?”

Steve tapped his finger against his chin for a second, obviously working through something. Phil expected anything - another LG Human Paladin, hell, even a Neutral Good Ranger. If he were a betting man, he’d have been prepared to put money down on Steve bringing every ounce of his do-gooding might into whatever fantasy world he was presented with.

Instead, Steve said, “You know? I think it’d be a lot of fun to play a rogue.” 

It was a little bit of a convoluted process, made doubly frustrating by Tony’s running commentary, but eventually he helped them roll and figure out their stats. By the time seven rolled around and a mountain of pizzas were delivered, Valdar the Lawful Good Human Paladin (mounted on a Dire Boar, which Tony helpfully named Piggy), Celestia the Well-Endowed, Chaotic Good Elf Mage, and Yenril Shadowstrike, Lawful Neutral Half-Elf Rogue had been outfitted and their character pieces placed onto the tabletop map Phil unfurled over the kitchen table.

It was at the precise moment when Phil was about to launch into his introductory exposition that Clint Barton, exemplary marksman and foremost pain in Phil’s backside, wandered in, apparently lured by the smell of pizza. 

His eyes lit up when he saw the map, the sets of dice, and Phil sitting at the head of the table with his laptop open. Phil could tell Tony and Steve expected him to say something sarcastic, mocking them for their choice of entertainment on a Friday night, but what they got was, “Ooh, hey, can I join? My dice and character sheet are back at my apartment, I can run and get them -”

“No, Clinton, all of your characters would have to be so wildly nerfed it wouldn’t be fair,” Phil said, crossing his arms over the front of his T-shirt and surveying Clint critically. 

“Aww, you’re just mad Belfire Cupshigh was a gamebreaker,” Clint said, rocking back on his heels. “Not my fault you and Natasha didn’t count on all those AC modifiers.”

“I still think you were cheating with that somehow,” Phil muttered. Instead of going away, Clint pulled out the chair next to his and plopped himself down with a slice of pizza and a Coke, chewing loudly and shooting the shit-eating grin reserved only for his handler at Phil. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the group seemed to be caught up on one crucial detail. “You played D&D with Romanov?” Tony asked, so saturated in disbelief he was practically oozing it. 

“No, Clint and I played,” Phil said, opening the tabs with his exposition and game mechanics back up. “Natasha was the DM.” 

With that, he started the game. 

Straight off, Valdar broke up a fight in the tavern, and Celestia the Well-Endowed starts another one over a treasure map. (”See, you wouldn’t have this issue if you had a charismatic bard helping you out!” Clint complained.) 

In the dungeon, Yenril Shadowstrike appeared to stay out of the action, but when goblins appeared in a flanking formation, Steve’s character proved to be more than proficient with throwing his daggers, having rolled a pretty high Dex stat, which Steve tried not to look ridiculously proud of. 

Then Tony crit failed, and Celestia the Well-Endowed set herself on fire with a badly-managed spell. 

Thor, Steve, and Clint laughed uproariously as he smacked his head on the table, begging for a re-roll, and Phil couldn’t help but marvel, feeling a little smug that yeah, his peers in high school made fun of him for spending every weekend rolling dice and fighting dragons, but now? He got to hang out with superheroes. 

Being a geek paid off after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my witchwife requested, for a meme a good long time ago, "Steve/Bucky - 19, Jealous Kiss?"

Because Steve insisted that Bucky see a medic first, because Steve adhered to protocol and insisted on giving his (unauthorized) mission report to all available brass, because an injured sergeant got less fancy digs and transport than a freshly-minted war hero, it was more than two weeks after Azzano before they could catch a breath alone together.

Two weeks was long enough for Bucky to get back on his feet - bless the Army, with regular meals and proper medical care Bucky doesn’t think he’d ever be able to recover so quickly, which is why he’s able to stomp around London on leave with the best of them.

Two weeks is also long enough for him to see the state of things with Steve and that dame.

“Jeez, Buck, _jeez_ ,” Steve grumbles sweetly against his lips. He smiles against Bucky’s mouth, and that pisses Buck off even more. He crowds Steve against the door of the empty room of the inn, can faintly hear everyone in the tavern downstairs drinking and singing over Steve’s hot breath. For a moment he can forget that Steve is bigger than he is, now, until the punk puts his arms on his shoulders and tries to pull him closer.

That makes Bucky pull away. “No,” he says. Steve reaches for him again, looking confused, and he steps back. “ _No_ , damn it,” he repeats, angry.

Steve’s bigger. Steve is in love with Peggy Carter, anyone can see it. Bucky is small, discardable, broken in ways by captivity that he doesn’t want to think about. Bucky is angry. Bucky wants to scream that no one deserves Steve now because they didn’t see him as he was then, except he supposes that Carter woman has. He can’t hate her for seeing in Steve what he always has.

“Buck,” Steve says, looking at him with earnest, confused eyes. “Buck, what’s gotten into you?”

It makes Bucky want to laugh. It makes him want to scream again. What’s gotten into him? He doesn’t know, most days. All he knows is he walked onto a battlefield Sergeant Bucky Barnes of the 107th, and stumbled out of a HYDRA plant feeling like half a person flayed open and raw. And Steve, his rock, his 95-pound anchor, is another person entirely, and in love with someone else.

Instead of answering he surges up to kiss Steve again, hearing the soft little noise Steve makes into his mouth and selfishly hoarding it away. This, at least, he can have. This, the gasp Steve makes when he runs his nails down Steve’s neck, this, the heat radiating from him. He used to always run cold, an icicle in Bucky’s bed. Bucky opens his mouth and bites, catching Steve’s lower lip between his teeth and worrying it until he’s sure it’ll be red and swollen the next day.

They part. Bucky’s not sure if he’s more or less angry now. Steve’s bottom lip looks inflamed for all of five seconds, before returning to normal. It’s shiny with spit and Bucky wants to lick it, but he guesses that’s another side effect of this new Steve. This new Steve won’t wear his marks, his bite and kiss-swollen lips.

There’s a bed in the room; he caught a glimpse of it when before he slammed Steve against the closed door. It’s probably lumpy and uncomfortable in that distinct way Brit mattresses tend to be. He doesn’t give a damn as he hooks his fingers in Steve’s suspenders and walks him backwards.

Together they fall onto the mattress. It’s not too different from their bed in Brooklyn after all, and if that doesn’t feel like a knife in the gut, nothing does. Something must show on his face, quick before he hides it, because the last glimpse of Steve he gets in the dim lamplight makes him look concerned, for all Steve is red and flushed.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, sounding bewildered. “Bucky, what’s wrong?”

He buries his face in Steve’s shoulder, still unused to this new configuration between them, Steve so much larger and hot above him. He shakes. He wants to howl like an animal, let out this ugly beast that’s grown in his chest while Steve has only grown to match his goodness. _She can have you_ , he wants to say, feeling something sharp like surrender in his chest. _But she can't have_ all _of you_.

Shakily he inhales, reaches down for Steve’s belt buckle. He tilts his head back. He tries for his best Brooklyn-fuck-me smirk, quirked and filthy. He ignores how it doesn’t fit on his face any more. 

“Gonna show me what you can do, Captain?” he asks, and hopes it’ll be enough for now. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm over on tumblr as vodkaanddebauchery if you'd like to make any requests/comments/throw things at me. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! ♥♥


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